Dark Heart

by Margaret Weis;David Baldwin

  If she’d been juggling her usual caseload, if it had been any other day, she would have been tempted to stay in Justin’s arms. But things were coming to a boil. And the monster was still out there.

  She walked into the detective squad room to the familiar sight of Mac talking to his wife on the phone. Linda always called at the beginning of the day, about an hour after he got to work. Mac was nodding without really listening and saying, “Mmm hmm,” at random intervals, and nodding some more, until he saw Sandra.

  “Honey? Yeah. She just walked in. I gotta go.” He paused. “Who? Sandra! Who do you think?” He shook his head. “Right. Okay. I’ve got to go. Bye.” He put the receiver down and regarded Sandra silently for a moment.

  She gave Mac a sweet smile.

  “Glad to see you could finally make it in,” he said.

  “It’s good to be back.”

  He looked at his watch, “Really? You wouldn’t know it by the time.”

  “Relax, Mac. Nothing ever happens before ten o’clock.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What’s up with you?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Mac.” She shrugged and looked around. “Did they wash the windows or something in here? Seems brighter.”

  “Little Miss Sweetness and Light…” Mac sat back in his chair and smiled a little. “I don’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got that barnyard egg look.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Just laid,” he said, chuckling. Mac was his own biggest fan. “Ever heard that one before?”

  She felt her face heat with embarrassment.

  “And well laid, from the looks of it,” Mac continued.

  “Not funny, Mac.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t get your hackles up, Bruce. But questions like ‘Gee, did they wash the windows?’ and that goofy smile you’re wearing are a dead giveaway.”

  “Focus, Mac. Think focus, okay?”

  Across the room Lewis was cussing at his computer again. O’Mara was trailing the captain to his office door, trying to convince him that she deserved this weekend off.

  Mac chuckled. “Focus on what, Bruce?” He blinked with spurious innocence.

  “Dragons, maybe. Dragon men.”

  “Aw, jeez, Bruce. Not that weird shit. Please.”

  “So what else have we got?”

  “We picked up a redhead in a green trench coat.”

  “Yeah? When was this?”

  “This morning, before ten o’clock. Breaking and entering. I snagged him out of the general tank. He’s in the cage in interview one, just waiting for you.”

  He handed across a sheaf of photocopies. “He’s got what you call your basic history, the usual hairbag crap. All of it pretty minor, junkie stuff. A real winner, our Maxie.”

  Sandra skimmed through the pages—several drug-related arrests, some hot check charges, a couple of shoplifting arrests, but no convictions. The kid had been defended by some high-powered lawyers.

  She raised her eyebrows. “He’s got a lot of clout for a punk. How come?”

  Mac shrugged. “Not him, but his daddy. Rich guy, and up until recently, he was paying the tolls.”

  “Oh.” Sandra nodded. “Nothing violent.”

  “Hell, Bruce, he weighs about ninety pounds dripping wet. And he’s a junkie. He gets violent, your granny would crush him.”

  “Well, let’s go talk to him.”

  “Hold on, tiger. What happened in California? You look like you stuck your face in a meat grinder.”

  Sandra described all the events that had happened since she’d last seen her partner. Mac listened thoughtfully, nodding here and there. When she finished, he said, “Omar. That Omar fuck. That’s the weird shit. First you run into him at the club, and then he tries to whack you out in sunny California. That ain’t no coincidence, babe.”

  “No, I don’t think so, either,” she told him. “And there’s more. The description we got from that girl, Tina. An Arab, she said. An Arab who tried to scrag her, but got stopped by some Chinese kid. Just like what happened with me.”

  “Christ, Arabs? Now we got, what? Terrorists or some shit like that, to go along with monsters? Tibetan dragon men?”

  “I don’t know. I’m thinking maybe it’s some guy in costume, or maybe an animal trainer using some sort of predator that’s been trained to kill on command. Some kind of huge lizard or something that could claw through a man’s chest.” Sandra shook her head. “Maybe this Omar asshole’s working with a partner in a dragon suit.”

  “Oh, God, Bruce, that’s screwed up.”

  “I know. Everything about this is screwed up. And getting screwier, right?”

  He stared at her. “You don’t buy this lizard monster shit, do you?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know what I buy right now. But we do have one thing that’s real.” She flapped the papers. “We got Maxie.”

  Mac grinned. “Yeah, we do, don’t we?”

  She slid her rear off the edge of the desk. “So let’s go see just what it is we got.”

  Sandra stood in front of the one-way glass. It was him, all right. The redheaded, pimply youth on the other side sat uneasily in his chair. He moved restlessly, fidgeting and shifting, never completely at rest. He picked at a zit every now and then. Sometimes he reached up reflexively to adjust his trench coat, but the officers had taken it from him when they arrested him. His hands would hang in the air over where the collar should’ve been, and then he’d notice what he was doing and put them back in his lap for all of two seconds before he began to tap the table, or twitch, or ruffle his short-cropped carroty hair.

  “Nervous, isn’t he?” Sandra said.

  “He’s pulling out of junkie heaven. He’ll be even uglier in a few hours or so.”

  Sandra nodded, then opened the door into interrogation room one. The moment Sandra stepped into the room, the kid recognized her. He seemed caught between relief, fear, and the pain of his withdrawal.

  “Hey, the cop lady,” he mumbled, his dark-ringed eyes a startling contrast to his pasty, freckled complexion. He hunched down into himself, never taking his haunted gaze off of her.

  “Maxwell Bergot. Your parents must be worried sick about you.” Sandra said.

  He snorted and looked away. “Fuck them,” he said.

  She nodded. “You’re a real sweetie, aren’t you?”

  She pulled up a chair opposite him, spun it around, and sat down. She leaned her chin against the back and stared at him.

  “I got a question for you, Maxie.”

  He shrugged, looked at the table, then back up into her eyes.

  “Why’ve you been following me?” she asked.

  “I told you.”

  “Yeah. You said you wanted to give me some information, and then you ran. People who want to give me information usually stick around long enough to deliver. They’re a lot more likely to get paid that way.”

  “Shit, you weren’t gonna pay. You tried to stiff me. I should’ve just left you alone. Should’ve learned from what happened to Madrone. Stupid. Now I’m dead.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Yeah? Why are you dead? Little drug deal gone bad?”

  “Cut the druggie shit, okay?” he snarled, “I was doin’ you a favor, and now I’m probably gonna die for it! Just like Madrone.”

  “What do you mean, Maxie? What do you know about Madrone? Who killed him?”

  He gave her a cynical smile. “You cops are so stupid. I swear I drew Madrone a white line straight to the guy, and even then, he fucked it up, got himself killed.”

  “Madrone?”

  “No. The Easter Bunny. Fuck it. Look, I told him where he could find the guy that done the lawyer guy.”

  “Wheeler,” Sandra said.

  Maxie nodded.

  “Where?”

  “I was in a bar for…,” he paused, looked up at the one-way mirror and frowned, “…for something, and I overheard
these guys talkin’. They were talkin’ about that lawyer guy, and I heard one of ’em say he did it and how much he loved it and everything. Then he tries to say he didn’t do it, like it was a joke, but you can tell, you know? I mean, if you seen somebody who really killed somebody, you can tell them from someone who’s just talkin’ shit. This guy done it, even though he said afterward that he was only joking.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I don’t know. Something strange. Ozar or Okar or something. Omar, maybe. I think that was it. I can’t remember. It started with an O.”

  “Omar?” She caught it right away, but a moment later, she caught something else. “So that was why you ran that night. The guy was standing right behind me!”

  Maxie snorted. “Hooray for you. Pat yourself on the back and dig my grave.”

  “Who was he talking to at the bar?”

  “The bartender,” Maxie shifted again, and this time he broke eye contact and looked at the wall. “He’ll come after me, you know. If he could get to Madrone, he can sure as hell get to me.”

  “We’ll protect you.” Sandra said.

  “Like I got a helluva lot of choice now, right?” Maxie said.

  “What’s the bartender’s name?”

  “Nick,” Maxie said. “His name is Nick Seder.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “Gwendolyne’s Flight.”

  Gwendolyne’s Flight? Justin’s bar—Sandra had just left there, just left his apartment above the bar.

  “…told Madrone he should talk to Nick, he wanted to find this Omar asshole. Next day Madrone turns up dead.”

  “Why’d you keep running away from me all the time?”

  “’Cause you kept bein’ a bitch!” he exclaimed, “I risk my ass to help you, and you take my stuff, rip me off, then you wanna bust my ass!”

  Sandra eyed him without emotion. “Yeah, life’s tough like that. Especially if you’re an asshole.”

  Maxie squirmed and looked at the wall.

  She nodded. “All right, Maxie. We’re going to keep you here for a while. You’ll be safe. You think good and hard about any details you might’ve missed. I’ll get back to you again.”

  “You’re gonna lock me up, book me?” Maxie asked.

  “You scratch our backs, we scratch yours. That’s how it works. For right now, protective custody. Your own private cell. I’ll tell ’em room service.” She reached into her bag, pulled out a twenty, handed it over. “Order a pizza if you want.”

  He took the money. “You got something else of mine, too. Maybe you wanna give that back?”

  “Sorry, Maxie. The only turkey you get here is cold turkey. Or I could just boot your ass back onto the street, see if Omar looks you up.”

  It was obvious he was tempted. But then he subsided. “Naw. I think I’ll hang here for a while. Till you grab the guy. You are gonna grab him, right?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Sandra said. “We’re gonna grab him.”

  She rose to leave.

  “You sure you can’t help with a taste?” Maxie said, the sick whine of need in his voice.

  “Fresh coffee in the hall,” Sandra said, and went out to find Mac.

  “Omar,” he said. “Again with this Omar guy.”

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “It’s a lead. I say we drop by this Gwendolyne’s Flight joint, say hi to Nick Seder.”

  She swallowed, hesitated. Fortunately Mac didn’t notice.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “You know where it is? You’re the big bar hopper, after all.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “I’ve been there before.” For some reason she couldn’t bring herself to tell him she’d left there only a couple of hours before.

  Most likely the murderer was just a guy who came into the bar, got too drunk, and said too much. Most likely. The old stupidity factor. And maybe Justin just happened to know a hell of a lot about dragons. Or dragon men.

  Maybe…

  Cops, she thought, don’t much believe in coincidences, though.

  As they left the building, they walked past the little cell where Maxie sat, fidgeting and staring uneasily at his reflection in a small shaving mirror affixed to the wall over the sink. Staring as if he saw something besides his own ugly, sweating mug there.

  Something scary. Bad scary…

  twenty

  Nick Seder walked up to the back door of Gwendolyne’s Flight and fumbled in his pocket for the keys. He was beat. The party at his house last night had wiped him out, and he wasn’t looking forward to a busy Friday evening. Fridays were always busy at the Flight. Nick was, however, looking forward to a Bloody Mary to calm the thumping in his head. He’d bitched about the rain yesterday, but he would have preferred an overcast sky to this blindingly bright fall day.

  Lost in his own pain, he did not see the two figures approach him until it was too late. A meaty hand fell on his shoulder and spun him around.

  “Hi, Nick,” McKenzie said, flipping open his badge case. “How ya doing?”

  “What the hell do you want?” Nick looked from McKenzie to Sandra and back again.

  “Hey, Nick, my man. Script says we ask the questions, right?” McKenzie spun him around and pushed him up against the wall. “And I’ll bet you know the position, don’t you? Ah, you do. What a surprise.”

  Grudgingly, Nick spread his feet, put his hands out, and leaned against the wall as Mac body-searched him.

  “Aw, man! I haven’t done anything! You can’t just—”

  “Sure I can, Nick,” McKenzie said. “You know I can.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Nick whined. “You can’t just take a guy and—”

  “Hey, Nick? Shut the fuck up, okay?”

  Nick frowned, but said nothing else until McKenzie was finished.

  “Okay, turn around.”

  Nick turned. His eyes widened as he saw what McKenzie was holding in his thick fingers.

  “What have we here?” Mac held the two small glas-sine bags and a small black film canister up against the sun. “The baggies look like smack. Would that be about right, Nick?”

  Seder’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Hey, you don’t just walk up to me and go through my pockets, asshole. Ain’t you never heard of a fucking search warrant?”

  Ignoring him, McKenzie opened the canister. “And coke, and some little pills here.” McKenzie shook the plastic case. “What would those be, Nick? Speed? Downers? What else you got on you?”

  “Hey, those aren’t even mine.”

  “Right. They don’t have your name on them, do they?” McKenzie said. “Guess you put on the wrong jeans this morning, huh? They’re your roommate’s, right?”

  “That’s right,” Nick said. Then, sullenly, “So show me a warrant.”

  McKenzie sighed with mock patience. “Don’t need no warrant, Speedy Gonzales. Not when Detective McCormack—that’s her, right there—and me, Detective McKenzie—saw you behaving in a suspicious manner. And in the process of us investigating your suspicious mannerisms, we happen to notice evidence indicating that you might be holding in your very own possession this dope here. Which we found in the process of checking you for weapons. For our own safety, of course.”

  “That’s all bullshit and you know it.”

  “You aren’t that stupid, are you, Nicky? Judge’ll buy it in a New York minute, right?” Mac grinned at him. “Am I right?”

  All the air seemed to go out of Nick. “What the fuck you want, then?”

  “You got the right to remain silent, Nick. And you got the right to a lawyer. If you can’t afford a lawyer—”

  “I know the fucking drill, man. What the fuck you want with me?”

  Sandra stepped forward. Mac handed her one of the baggies. She lifted it, dangled it in front of Nick’s nose. “You got a sheet, Nick?”

  He shrugged.

  “Bet you do,” she said. “Bet this won’t help any. Enough here for a felony possession for sale, I’d
guess. And we got three strikes in Illinois now. How many strikes you got already, Nick? One? Two?”

  “Aw, come on. What do you want from me? This ain’t no fucking dope bust. Is it?”

  She stared at him, considering. “Maybe not.”

  His shoulders slumped in relief. “So we can deal, is that what you’re saying? Okay, fine. Deal. You want names or something? That’s cool. I got names.”

  Mac eyed him with distaste. “Man, loyalty’s always a fine thing. My dad used to say that. ’Course, he’d never met a slime-sack like you, Nicky. You’re a piece of work.”

  Seder avoided his gaze, stayed focused on Sandra’s face. “Lady, tell me what you want, okay?”

  Sandra considered a moment longer, drawing it out. Then she nodded. “I want to know about Carlton Wheeler. Who killed him.”

  Nick’s resentful posture faded, and he looked scared. “I d-don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered. His brow furrowed.

  “Nick,” Sandra said kindly, “how we going to deal with you standing there lying your ugly face off?”

  “Look, I didn’t have anything to do with no goddamn lawyer, and that’s the truth!”

  “Just like these drugs aren’t yours?” McKenzie pressed.

  “Okay, fine! Pin the drugs on me. You bastards wanna roust people who’re just going about their business, fine! There’s nothing I can do about that. But I didn’t kill nobody!” He paused. “And I want a lawyer. I got nothing more to say.”

  “We didn’t say you killed anybody, Nick.” McKenzie leaned over, close to the bartender’s face. “We just want to know what you know about it.”

  “And you know something, Nicky. You know Carlton Wheeler’s a lawyer. And I don’t remember telling you that. Did you tell him, Mac?”

  “Nope. Maybe he’s a mind reader. How about it, Nicky? You read minds?”

  “I…uh…man, I dunno nothing about none of that shit. Honest to God.”

  McKenzie shrugged. “Hey, look here, cool. Play it that way. See if I give a shit.” He pushed the remaining bag and the canister into his own jacket pocket. And pulled a pair of cuffs off his belt. “Turn it around, Ace. Hands behind your back.”